Page 80 of The Art of Ruin

That was… more than I wanted it to be.

I take care of what I need to, moving carefully, aware of every shift in my body in a way that’s impossible to ignore. By the time I’m done, the effort of it has settled back into that same dull, persistent ache, not worse, but not better either. I need more pain relief and my heating pad back in place.

When I open the door again, he’s exactly where he said he’d be.

Waiting, long legs crossed at the ankles as he leans on the wall. Effortlessly handsome, even with sleep-rumpled clothes, while I probably look like I wrestled a rabid bear and lost.

His attention lifts immediately, assessing in that same quiet, thorough way that he has. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

He steps forward again, just as steady as before, his hand finding my arm in the same controlled way, arm around my back, guiding without taking over completely.

This time, I don’t argue. Just getting to the bathroom and doing what I needed to do has wiped me out.

The walk back to bed feels shorter, maybe because I know what to expect now, maybe because I’m too tired to fight it.

When I sit, he waits just long enough to make sure I’m stable before stepping back, giving me space to lie down properly. Lifting my legs up with gentle ease.

I pull the blanket back over myself, adjusting the heating pad without thinking, settling into the position that hurts the least.

He watches for a second longer, then nods slightly, like he’s confirming something to himself.

“I’m going to make you something to eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Perhaps not, but you need to take more medication, and you need some food in you first.”

I huff out a quiet breath, too tired to put any real energy behind the irritation. He’s right because of course he is. When is this man not right? “What are you making?” I ask instead.

“That depends,” he replies, already turning toward the door. “What helps?”

I hesitate for a second, running through the options. “Something light,” I say finally. “Soup, maybe. Or toast.”

He nods once, like that’s exactly the kind of answer he was expecting. “Tea?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Hot or iced?”

“Hot, please.”

There’s the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth at that, not quite a smile, but close enough that I notice.

Then he’s gone.

The room settles again once he leaves, quieter than before but not as heavy. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to process the fact that he’s still here.

That he didn’t leave.

That he’s… helping when he doesn’t need to. I’m nobody to him, just his nanny or, at best, his sister-in-law’s friend, but he stayed. He’s still here.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth settle back in, and for the first time since this started—I don’t feel like I have to manage it alone.

13.Adriano